i need someone’s eyes
i remember a girl who wrote poems just to compliment my eyes four years ago. i remember feeling butterflies by reading them. now, i’m confused… they have never changed forms, yet they changed — perhaps the reason why no one compliments them anymore.
my eyes see sadness, anger, and maybe, a little bit of beauty. my eyes are different, but they share the same color with the crowd.
at some point i hated people with different eyes as mine. why do they see the world differently? sa’kin ba ang mali? ano’ng nakikita nila na hindi ko makita?
hindi ko makita ang punto ng pamumuhay.
i see no sunshine. i hate mornings. sobrang liwanag. i’d rather wake up at night.
thus my eyes sparkle in the darkest shades of blue and black. i luminesce as the moon that blends in a stygian sky with cobaltine waters underneath.
or not…
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i dissolve into the indigo like the transparent grayest smoke no one has ever seen. i wear the hues of the abyssal dark — colors that scare the light away, too frightening for colorful and gentle eyes. in that isolation, i am comforted; unless they bear the same intensity of ire, they could see my shroud.
after all, the moon’s glint is only a reflection of the sun’s incandesce. the moon hangs achromatic. she only exists. she has no light.
tangina, ano’ng kwenta niya kung hiram lang din ang liwanag niya.
now, i starve for the sun. i want yellow, i want orange — like a child demanding for her toy — but my eyes are made of the deep. too deep that light will never reach these depths, and changing the eyes that damn me is an impossible, chimerical wish.
still, i wish.
to crave the orange and yellow is to crave a heartbeat. my ire is no longer just anger at the crowd; it is a desperate, clawing will to exist outside the shadows. a desperate call for someone who can share their eyes for me to see the world’s beauty not only in its thunderstorms and maelstroms, but also in its calmness and warmness. to know how beautiful waking up is than staying up late. a plumbless cry to seek purpose in this thing we call “living.”
i need someone’s eyes to live.
and i wonder if the people who would look at my eyes could tell how beautiful they are again.
